


hunter, hunted (machinations beyond my control)

by chuchisushi



Series: Pathbreaking [1]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Little Red Riding Hood: there's three rules you follow when you walk the Path in the Woods, and the most important is to never stray.</p><p> But Red Hood Dresden finds trouble when a good he has to deliver earns him the unwanted attention of the Red Court and the intervention of the Wolfshead Baron, Gentleman Johnny Marcone; now he has to trust in the lesser of two unknowns to keep his life out of the Leanansidhe's clutches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Dresden Files Kinkmeme:
> 
> "Harry is a Red Riding Hood, a man who travels through the woods to make deliveries. He always stays on the path, because there are Wolves (and worse) in the woods and he would rather not be robbed/eaten/injured.
> 
> John Marcone is a Wolf. Who's been keeping his eye on Harry and keeping all the other Wolves away - Harry Dresden is his meat.
> 
> Harry makes a delivery to his Godmother, and John saves him from Lea's manipulations and traps.
> 
> Long story short - the big bad wolf saves little red from grandmother."

There’s three cardinal rules when traveling the Woods.

One: don’t dawdle. Keep moving and with any luck, you’ll get to your destination before anything has the chance to know you’re there.

Two: don’t listen. The things that live in the Woods lie. And if they don’t lie, they’re crafty. Or outright deadly. Don’t believe anything they say, don’t go after anything that sounds like a kid or a baby, don’t leave the Path.

And rule three: _never_ leave the Path. The Woods’ll swallow you whole and hide your bones till doomsday.

Never, ever leave the Path.

The name’s Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. I’m a Hood. And this is the story of the time I did.

 

\--

Traveling the Nevernever is only marginally less dangerous than the Woods itself (as long as you stick to the Ways); tearing the fabric between worlds apart, I step down from freezing Winter into ankle-deep loam.

Gross. Dead, rotting leaves. I was just glad my boots didn’t have holes in them.

Straightening from my crouch (it had been a bit of a drop to the forest floor--distances in the Nevernever are hard to judge, okay), I automatically ran through my travel checklist.

Force rings, check. Shield bracelet, check. Armor, a bit scuffed up, but the leather was still sound, check. Walking staff, check. Blasting rod, check. Package, check.

Hood and cloak. Check.

I’m a Red Hood. Before you ask, I chose the occupation voluntarily--well, as voluntarily as you can get when there’s a not-so-metaphorical sword at your neck. I had the choice of the Woods or summary execution at the hands of another Hood--White Hoods were really strict that way. I could argue until my face turned blue that violating the First Law had been in self-defense, that I’d been sixteen and stupid and didn’t even know the Hoods existed when I’d killed Hood DuMorne, but at the end of the day, I’d hurt one of their own and was therefore a threat to the whole. They probably would had offed me, not even offered the choice, if I hadn’t been lucky enough to have someone at my trial willing to take in a half-trained, sullen kid. Hood McCoy, old Eb, had given me enough leeway and time to finish training and be able to make that choice--run the Woods as a Red Hood, or death via swordpoint.

Both seemed to offer about the same survival rate, but here I was, seven years later and none the worse for wear (ignore the scars). One of the longest-living Red Hoods out there, with one of the highest successful delivery rates, specializing in Woods routes.

Maybe partially because of this guy.

“Mister Dresden,” says the voice; dead leaves crunch in the gloom beyond the Path. “It’s good to see you still in one piece.”

I squint out into the dark before starting off. I know he’ll be able to keep pace; no need to crimp my schedule on his account.

“Quiet today, Harry? Something on your mind?”

“None of your business, Marcone. And don’t call me Harry.” That’s the last time I use my Name to bargain with a Woods spirit; I don’t know how I’d been expecting Marcone to not get his hands on it.

The hulking figure of John Marcone materializes at the corner of my vision; automatically, I whip out my blasting rod, leveling it over my shoulder at him, its tip already glowing cherry-ember red. The minor light illuminates more of the depthless black around us, exposes the trunks of trees and gilts leaves overhead.

He holds up his hands (hands in that what else do I call hand-shaped condensed darkness?), palms out at me. I can tell he’s smiling as if to reassure me; it doesn’t. The light from my rod grows just a shade brighter. Marcone’s smile never fades.

He makes a snorting noise that contains more than a thread of amusement and comments, “On-edge already today, Mister Dresden?”

“No thanks to you.” Slowly, I lower my blasting rod and disappear it back into my cloak, starting walking again. Marcone coalesces into a human form, falls into step just a little behind me, the middle-aged male form he favors more-than able to keep up with my ground-eating lope despite its shorter stature. I try not to look at him; the way the edges of his impeccable suit slip and waver would only give me a headache.

We walk in silence for a while before Marcone opens his mouth again: “Dresden, in all honesty, I cannot read your mind. Whatever is the matter? You’re seething hard enough to blister air.”

I stop. Wheel on a heel to glare at Marcone, simmering temper coming to a head, and spit out through gritted teeth, “You rule over this tract of the Woods, right? From the shores of the Boundless Lake to the Steel Pits?”

He looks mildly taken aback by my vehemence. Good. “Yes?”

“So why was the first thing on my desk this morning a report saying a Hood and the two _kids_ he’d been escorting had been killed in the Wolfshead’s territory?” I pause, remembering again the rage and helplessness I’d felt reading the sterile words detailing the incident. “Stars above, Marcone, I can freaking understand a Hood, but _children_?” Words that had turned the taste of coffee in my mouth into ash--ash and _betrayal_ , because for all that Marcone was a terrifying, overbearing entity that like to meddle with my routes, that not only survived but _thrived_ in the hostile conditions of the Woods, he had a _thing_ about kids. Was almost legendary for it, in fact, the characteristic a vital part of any dossier on Gentleman Johnny.

Two kids. Hell fucking bellstones.

Marcone had gone very still, muscles like stone underneath the tailored cloth of his suit; only the faded green of his eyes tracked my increasingly agitated flailing as I gesticulated along with my words.

I rant my way to a sullen, exhausted silence, crossing my arms and tucking my elbows in close to my chest, raising one hand to pinch at the bridge of my nose, and into the ensuing silence, Marcone says, “I was not aware of this incident. You have my thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

Belatedly, I realize that Marcone actually isn’t still--his human manifestation is unmoving, but the darkness from the Woods all around us… it _seethes_ , boils and writhes in furious counterpoint to the utter stillness of his manifested form.

And just like that, he vanishes, popping out of existence like a soap bubble and leaving me confused and vaguely concerned on the Path.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short, but a small interlude; the next update will be much larger!

I don’t find out what Marcone does until days later; this time the news doesn’t come from work. Instead, it’s from another area in the Woods, a tamer region that we sometimes use as a training ground for Hoods-to-be, apprentices, and the news itself comes from a small flight of dewdrop fairies I caught gossiping in the bushes when I stopped for lunch at a waypoint.

I tear off a hunk of bread and offer it to the fey in exchange for information; the largest eyeballs it hungrily before saying, “The Wolfshead Baron took out his ire on particular denizens of his kingdom in a vigorous show of force; best stay clear of that region ‘till his temper cools” before snatching the bread from my fingertips and buzzing off into the trees, the rest following like a series of multicolored fireflies.

I finish the last of my sandwich lost in thought, then stand and brush off my pants. Better keep moving and mull it over as I walk instead of sitting around like a big, juicy target.

\--

I follow my instincts and take the next job whose route cuts through Marcone’s territory, ignoring the rest of me that’s saying I’m a damn idiot. I do make a nod at common sense and take a pack of supplies though--the good I’m transporting is a Level 3, and since I don’t have a partner with me (Ramirez is off running border patrol for another week), the least I can do is prepare for trouble.

Unknown return address--big surprise there--to go to the Red Court. Should be delivered straight into the claws--sorry, hands--of one Bianca St. Claire. Better go heavy on the sunshine and holy water.

I compulsively check my armor at the thought, nervously tugging at the rune-tattooed leather. I’d be going straight into the heart of the Red Court’s home territory, the roots underneath the metaphorical tree of influence they held outside the Woods. Add to that Marcone’s temper and my projected route through his territory and my prospects weren’t looks so great.

Fine. I thrive in adversity.

 


	3. Chapter 3

A few hasty skips and hops through the Nevernever and sections of the Woods and I was dropping down into the leaf-loam of Marcone’s territory. Nervously, I freeze in place, shaking out my shield bracelet and wrapping fingers tighter around my walking staff, eyes flicking over the trees. Forget being wary last time I was here; this time I was ready to start firing at shadows.

When nothing jumped out of the gloom to bite my face off, I relaxed marginally, straightening and adding to the dim light of the Path with my pentacle necklace, letting it lie on the outside of my chestplate. Theoretically speaking, I _could_ illuminate my armor, light myself up like a beacon with one of the spells laid in the leather, but that was considered rude in fairly safe, allied regions of the Woods. Doing it in Marcone’s territory would probably be tantamount to suicide.

The pentacle light? Oh, that was just my little ‘fuck you’ reminder to the Gentleman.

Who was kinda ruining my plans by not showing.

I walked all the way to the edge of his territory without seeing a drop of familiar seething shadow or hearing the purring rasp of his voice; whatever the Wolfshead Baron was doing, it was evidently more interesting than one battered Red Hood he was familiar with. I resisted the urge to set a tree on fire out of spite.

Whatever. The longer the job went without a hitch, the better.

\--

Yeah, I just had to open my big mouth; the thought floats up through the haze of pure narcotic high drowning my mind like a champagne bubble, before popping and being lost to the rest of my consciousness.

I should have been more careful--I’d relied too long on the unspoken invulnerability of the Hoods and their position in the Accords--neutral parties, they were necessary for the transportation of goods through the Woods and Nevernever in a timely, reliable manner. Sure it was dangerous entrusting things to us, but it beat sending some of your own lackies into hostile territory. Or going yourself, which was always the exact damn opposite of fast or discreet.

I could feel my heartbeat in every inch of my body, each throb sending a warm pulse of dizzy, tingling pleasure through my veins. I’d been fucking ambushed  in Bianca’s antechamber; the vampire had just smiled at the contents of the box when I’d given it to her, closed the lid, and handed it right back to me.

I’d tried not to gape at her. “Uh… I can’t exactly return it--”

“Of course not. Deliver it for me--that’s what you do, correct? Give it to the Leanansidhe of Winter.” She’d paused as I’d felt all the blood drain out of my face at her words, probably savoring my shock. “And to make sure you don’t dally or stray…”

I’d heard her minions too late; goods in one hand, walking staff in the other, I couldn’t defend myself fast enough to not put the box in danger. I managed a sloppy “ _Forzare_!”, tossing one vampire back and tearing its fleshmask with the force of the blast, but the second one bore me to the ground underneath its weight, sinking fangs into the skin of my throat, exposed above my armor in my sprawl.

Fuck.

I can tell my throat’s still bleeding underneath the bandage they’d slapped over the bite, both mostly hidden by my hood, and my shoulder hurts where I’d landed bad on it, but it’s all too distant, uncaringly fuzzy and blurry. We’re going through Marcone’s territory again, I can gather that much; the Way we’re taking is through it, leads from the Woods straight into the heart of Winter.

Two Red Court flank me, pushing me along the Path when I stumble; their fleshmasks are beautiful but marred by their darting, nervous eyes. Are they seriously afraid of Marcone? Expecting him to come? He hadn’t earlier, and he won’t now; I surprise myself with the bitterness in that thought. Hang on, I thought I didn’t give a damn about Gentleman Johnny.

Before I can turn over the thought any further, I feel my two escorts stiffen, freeze midstep an instant before a familiar voice drifts through the darkness.

“Harry? Who are your companions?”

He drifts out from between the trees, and dark spots dance in my vision as he coalesces, turns apparently harmless eyes on us three.

“Um,” I try, but my tongue is loose, all the thoughts slipping from my head; one of the matching pair clears its throat and speaks up as Marcone’s eyes narrow, as he stalks closer and goes from harmless to deadly by moving two facial muscles.

“The Hood is escorting us through the Woods, Baron Wolfshead. We are journeying to Winter and merely passing through your territory--”

Marcone steps close enough that I can count the crows feet around his eyes, and he frowns as though a teacher disappointed with an answer, eyes never leaving my face.

“Harry? Is this true?”

I can feel the slippery presence of the Red in my brain grow spines and bite deep, shoving at my thoughts clumsily and chasing away the high long enough for me to realize the full extent of my body’s collected ouches; I can tell the vampire wouldn’t think twice about using its grip in my head to kill me or attack Marcone if I answer incorrectly.

It’s not fully in control, though; I have some wiggle room--and that’s all I need.

I manage a grin for Marcone. “Yeah, just another job. Everything’s just peachy, John.”

Marcone’s face freezes even as the grip in my head releases, brings tears to my eyes with the cessation of pain and the roar of the high’s return; I can feel both Reds relax marginally behind me.

“Mister Hendricks, Miss Gard,” Marcone says crisply, eyes never leaving my face. “Please dispose of Mister Dresden’s unwanted guests.”

The venom’s spike drives blindingly deep, painful like an ice pick to the eye as the vampires freak out, followed by a nauseatingly abrupt cessation of the pain in the next instant as something beyond the path _snarls_ and barrels out of the trees, seizing one vampire in its jaws and literally crushing it between its teeth, blood splurting everywhere. The second only has the time to begin a shriek before a silver axe cleaves its head from its shoulders.

I can feel myself overload when the Red in my mind dies, flares up in agony and tries to drag me down with it in death, kill me as well, and every nerve in my body is screaming in reaction--

Thankfully, I pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to announce that, as of this chapter's posting, I'm done with this fic--but the rest of it has to be edited and typed up. :'D
> 
> In the meantime, I'll be working on the sequel, which will flesh out some aspects of Harry's world and hopefully cover a few (a few? At least one?) of the first books in the series. Watch this space! I'll be updating fairly regularly with chapters until [hunter, hunted] is finished.
> 
> (For reference.. the chapter today was about 2 1/2 pages in my notebook... the end of said fic is in... /counts
> 
> ..... 31 1/2 pages. Woah. UH. Hope you like long fics,,,)


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing that makes it past pain when I wake up is indignation.

What the _hell_ was Bianca thinking? Was she crazy--attacking a Hood is one thing; actively capturing and drugging one to the gills on venom and having them act as a personal messenger is an entirely different kettle of fish. One that turned the Hoods against you _en masse_ \--and _that_ implied her actions had been sanctioned by the Red Court itself. No way would she have risked it otherwise, right?

And what the hell was I carrying that they’d be willing to go to this much trouble? This wasn’t a Level 3 good; this was a Level 1 and I was way out of my depth. Level 1 needs a fucking White Hood escort of at least three to go anywhere, maybe even the Merlin himself on the team; if this stupid good was powerful enough to warrant turning the entire Red Court against the Hoods, it had to be insanely powerful, insanely dangerous, or both--and that meant I didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

It was a good plan though, I had to admit--it wasn’t for no reason that I stayed out of Winter when I wasn’t on official business. The Leanansidhe had eyes out for me. I owed her one major debt too many, and I was sure she wouldn’t mind holding me hostage in Winter until she found something I could repay her with.

She was also my fairy godmother. Yeah. Thank my mom for that.

The rest of the indignation (quickly turning into anger) was aimed at Marcone. Who the hell did he think he was, interfering with a delivery? (That I’d actually needed the help was another matter entirely and to be ignored until further notice for the safety of my pride.) I’d been glad he’d caught my deliberate slip, the closest I could get to calling for help that I could manage with the Red in my head (hah), but I sure as hell didn’t appreciate him bandaging me up and bringing me--

Er. Actually… Where the hell was I?

I decide to open my eyes (something I’d been delaying doing so the light from the Path wouldn’t send my headache into migraine territory) only to blink a few times as the blackness I was seeing didn’t change.

I blink again.

Then the realization hits and all the anger and frustration I’d been feeling turns into gut-watering fear.

I’m off the Path. Marcone’s taken me off the Path, and I’m in the Woods itself.

Holy fuck, I’m dead meat.

Flailing upright, I try really hard to not hyperventilate; I can’t see _anything_ , the oppressive, absolute blackness pressing close around me and tricking my eyes into seeing blotches and whorls of colors where there are none. Dead leaves crunch with my movement, and I can feel packed dirt underneath my fingertips as I fumble out my necklace with a hand, willing just a hint of power into it.

I’m off the Path and no-one, not Ramirez, not Eb, is going to come for me; the reaches of the Woods are a vast, hostile unknown, populated with nightmares and hell knows what else. The Path was made by the first Merlin, and even the best of us don’t know how he did it--only that it’s the safest way to travel through the dark.

My pentacle’s light is barely a glow, but I can hear things in the gloom slither and skitter away from it; I hold it up higher to get a better look at where I am.

A packed-dirt clearing--there’s some leaf litter on the ground, but nowhere near thick enough to be anything but fresh fall. Tentatively, I try my feet, standing--shaky, but serviceable. My throat’s still throbbing and my shoulder still hurts, but I can live with that. The light shows several trails branching out from the edges of the clearing, each more packed dirt like expanded deerpaths, and, as I try walking, exposes John Marcone sitting at a massive desk and chair that’ve sprouted from the center of the clearing.

I yelp and fumble the light, it going out and plunging us back into darkness; from the sudden pitch-blackness, I hear a mild, “Did I startle you, Harry?”

“ _Don’t call me that._ ”

I will my light back on, and John looks a little amused around the edges; I scowl at him and stalk across the clearing to where he sits. Another chair sprouts, blooms, withers, and dies into a serviceable seat as I approach.

I stare at it, then at him, then back at the chair, and finally sigh and sit down. I figure if I’m in this much trouble, a little more wouldn’t hurt.

“I’m off the Path.” Better start with the obvious.

Marcone inclines his head. “It was necessary. The Red Court would no-doubt send people searching and we were unsure when you would wake. We couldn’t take the risk.”

“Bullshit.” John’s eyebrow quirks, and I scowl harder. “I could have handled a few Reds; they just got the drop on me last time.”

“Handle, yes, but violate the Accords?”

That shuts my mouth. “You’re doing the same thing.” Only for a second, though. “Taking out two of Bianca’s people, intercepting her package? You’re declaring open season on yourselves.”

“Let me worry about that,” he replies crisply. “As for the package… where is it to be delivered?” I glower at him, consider keeping quiet, and John adds, “As I saved your life, you do have to abide by _some_ rules of hospitality--”

“To the Leanansidhe.”

“ _Ah_. Well. I’m not sure if we can have that.”

I clutch at the box belted to my waist and bare my teeth. “Tough. You wanted me alive, you got it; you want me to _stay_ alive, you can help me deliver the damn thing. I fuck up a quest like this and the White Hoods’ll have my head, no questions asked.”

“And if I deliver you to the Leanansidhe, you will be in as much danger.”

“Dems the terms, Marcone.”

“We’re not negotiating anything, Mister Dresden.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Marcone sighs but steeples his fingers and sits back in his chair (Okay, throne; it’s more like a throne. Fitting, I guess, considering we were apparently in the center of Marcone’s territory and power.) 

(Hells bells, I’m in it deep.)

“I will accompany you then, if you insist upon your suicide mission,” he finally says. I almost protest on principle, but restrain myself. (Look, Eb, tact!) I might be able to get away with poking at the Baron, but I can’t forget I’m at the heart of his territory now, technically under his protection, and possibly thus owing him my life.

“Fine. Let’s go then.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some hints and foreshadowing are scattered around in this chapter. uvu

Of course, it’s not that simple.

Marcone.. well, Marcone’s basically called a war party, approaching the issue of how to get me in and out of Lea’s territory without me ending up in her clutches or eaten by the Red Court like he’s planning an assault on a fortress. A particularly spiky, well-fortified, possibly glamored fortress. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

‘Mister Hendricks’ turns out to be the massive shadow--lupine?… ursine?… shaped _thing_ that had chomped the Red up like kibble earlier; almost-unnervingly silent, he wavers between his shadow state and a massive, red-haired mountain of a man in the light of my necklace.

‘Miss Gard’... well…

“Marcone, why do you have one of Vadderung’s on your staff?”

“She’s a security contractor, Mister Dresden.”

“...you formed an _alliance_ with _Vadderung_??”

“If you consider a _business contract_ an alliance, then _yes_ , Harry.”

So yeah. A _Valkyrie_. Hells bells.

We walked as they talked, me navigating by following the back of Marcone’s suit via the dim light of my necklace, Hendricks and Gard flanking us. I’d thought we’d been heading for the Way to Winter that the Reds had been herding me to, but eventually I gathered enough from the conversation the Three Musketeers were having to realize we were going to another place entirely.

See, that’s the thing--we Hoods know a lot about the Ways--but all we know is centered around the safety of the Path when it comes to the Woods. There’s different Ways that are safe to travel in in the Woods--sometimes those from the Woods end up in the Nevernever or vice versa, and we have no idea what the Ways they use are.

It’s a massive security risk for us. And the only one that could have helped them plot the Ways of travel the native denizens used was twenty plus years dead. Margaret LeFay--the Hood with the best natural bent for the Ways that had been seen in the magical community for generations.

My mother.

Yeah, you see where the fairy godmother comes from, right? My mother knew the Ways like the back of her hand, had probably dabbled in black magic (or at least skirted so close to the grey line that it was nearly indistinguishable), and had disappeared from the eyes of the White Hoods via the ways so thoroughly that her child hadn’t even been found until he’d burned down his foster father’s house and killed him in the flames for trying to enslave his mind.

I got a Hood for my trouble.

Anyway. The Nevernever connects to the Woods connects to the mortal plane nonlinearly--the creepy abandoned apartment is going to lead to a completely different part of the two than the sunny park just down the block. We were headed for a spot on the shore of the Boundless Lake that would dump us out on Lea’s doorstep--close enough for me to just chuck the package and run. Theoretically speaking. Whether Winter and my godmother would let me go so quickly was another matter entirely. As was figuring out how to spin this so I didn’t immediately lose the head once I got back home.

“Mister Dresden.” Marcone’s voice jars me out of my thoughts, and I blink at him. He continues. “If you would, please put out the light. We’re reaching a sensitive region of my territory, and I would rather not have the extra attention upon you.”

I eye him. ‘Sensitive region’... christ, did this have anything to do with the dead Hood and kids from before? The Baron had internal strife?

What was I saying. Of course he did--there wasn’t any way someone in his territory didn’t want his power. Stars and stones--and he was taking on a war with the Red Court on top of this??

“You’re an idiot,” I tell him without any preamble, which makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. I glower at him. “If I douse the light, how am I going to get around without falling on my face?”

In response, the Baron extends a hand towards me. I stare at it a moment in honest confusion before I understand.

“Hell’s bells, _no_! I’m not going around your damn territory holding your hand like an invalid!”

“Unless you’ve magically gained the ability to see in the dark, Harry, I suggest you swallow your pride and accept the help.” And wasn’t that just our relationship in a nutshell? Marcone tempted me as I bulldozed through anything in my way on the Path, regardless of what I lost doing so. I had a stubborn pride and being one of the most-reliable Red Hoods to walk the Path and Ways just strengthened it--

But he was right. God help me. I was in his territory, having brought a mess to his door by alerting him to the attack on the Hood in his territory, cluing him in to the opposition, and then through the deaths of two Reds on his watch.

I swallow and let my will fail, the light guttering out as I take Marcone’s hand.

The second I lose my sight, it _tightens_ and--flexes… weirdly; I don’t have a way to describe it, okay, not really. The flesh and bones of his hand ripple and shift nonbiologically underneath my fingertips, somehow losing some of their solidity, the very skin shifting like a small wave had passed through it; if someone had condensed the ectoplasm of the Nevernever into gelatin and pumped it into a bag made of kidskin leather, it might have felt like that. I don’t know how I could tell from the motion that Marcone had shed his human form, reverting back into the condensed darkness of whatever he wore when prying human eyes weren’t looking at him, because his fingers and hand are still finger and hand shaped--just… off a little.

It’s unsettling. Add that to the hypersensitivity of my senses kicking into overdrive with the loss of my sight and I nearly jump out of my skin when Gard remarks from behind me, “The Hood has two shadows.”

Then I try to relax my suddenly-tight muscles as the exact words register, Marcone pulling me forward as we keep moving on the deerpath.

“Oh?” he says. “Well. The Woods has a way of exposing all of us.” He can probably tell I’m craning my head to try to get a look at the ground because there’s a tug at my hand and a sense that he’s reprimanding a child coming off of him; I pull a face at where I guess the back of his head is and don’t think I imagine the gentle squeeze of response.

The slight rustle of dead leaves around us comes loud to my ears now, with the lack of sight and my other senses overcompensating, and the movement of air past me makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickle. I debate Listening to the dark around us, to the trees on either side of the path, then discard the idea as the divide in my focus just _thinking_ about the idea makes me trip over a tree root, invisible in the blackness; Marcone pulls me upright, keeping me from landing on my face, and I’m even gracious enough to mutter a thank you in his direction.

I can tell Hendricks and Gard are less paying attention to us as watching the trees carefully. Marcone is… well, Marcone, and his attention had been split from the second we’d left the central clearing.

Something roars, throaty, sudden, and menacing out in the dark; another voice answers it, shrieking high and inhuman. There’s a horrible clashing noise a second later, slightly wet slaps like someone punching a side of rotten meat along with the sound of wood, trees and branches splintering and breaking with cracks as loud as gunfire; I can feel Marcone’s attention shift to it as surely as if I’d seen his doggie ears point.

But he doesn’t slow or alter his pace, just squeezes back when my fingers convulse in instinctive fear, my lizard hindbrain telling me to cut and run.

My hand’s getting sweaty. Hell’s bells.

I shake out my shield bracelet just in case, tighten my grip on my walking staff, and keep moving, letting Marcone pull me around willingly for once; the noise recedes slowly behind us. I can tell when we reach the edge of the trouble spot; there’s a noticeable loss of tension between the three of us as we relax from our ready states. I sigh in relief, rolling my shoulders as my eyes flick over the trunks of the closet trees.

“You may use your light again, Mister Dresden.”

“Fantastic,” I mutter, letting go of his hand and willing my necklace back into glowing life. “How much further do we need to walk?”

“Another two days.”

I freeze.

Okay. Logically, I’d known that Marcone’s territory was big--it was days travel to get through it from border to border using the Path--but for some reason I hadn’t connected that time up with how long it would take us to get to the Lake’s edge. Blame it on Marcone somehow managing to show up within minutes wherever I dropped into his territory no matter how out of the way it was. He skewed my expectations.

Speaking of, though--how big _was_ Marcone’s territory? How far had he expanded: we hadn’t known anything about Marcone having a Valkyrie on staff, and that was kind of a big thing--how much land had he taken in the name of the Gentleman since we’d last collected information?

Shit.

“What are you doing out here, Marcone--expanding your border, allying with other regions--you’re declaring war on the Red Court, one of your closest neighbors, like it’s nothing. What are you up to?”

Marcone pauses, straightens a cuff, his face back on properly now that the lights are up; I know that if I touched him now, it would be human heat, human warmth, accurate down to the hairs on his arms and the flex of the muscles as he moves. Unsurprising; he’s a stickler for detail.

“That’s unusually forward of you, Mister Dresden. Are you sure you want to know the answer?” He stops as if to take in my reaction, or rather, my lack of one. “Are you asking as one of the Hoods?”

“I’m _asking_ as someone who walks the Path to pay for his food and rent and to keep the head on his shoulders. I want to know if I’m going to be walking through a warzone in the near future.”

“More than you usually do?” I squint at him--is he _teasing_ me?--and scowl harder; he smirks. “I’m creating a base of power for I and mine. I’m sure someone like you can appreciate the difficulty in doing so in a place like this.”

My scowl evolves into a glower, but… I let it go. There’s something here he’s not telling me, and I’m not sure if it’s my intuition, my Red Hood instincts, or my investigative skills that’re telling me to not push the point right now. Later. It’ll come up later. Hopefully not so much later that I’ve been beheaded.

“Two days then.”

“You have enough supplies for it,” he points out mildly, and the hell of it is that he’s right--the pack I’d taken just for the sake of it, in case of emergency, was stocked up with enough dried food for a week in case one missed a waystation while traveling the Path.

“Fine. I guess we keep walking.”

“We will inform you when we intend to make camp.”

I sigh but gesture with my staff. “Lead on, then.”


	6. Chapter 6

I’m a pretty fit guy.

Not like a weightlifter or anything, but I do most of my work on the Path and in the Nevernever and sometimes said work involves running like hell away from a monster that’s trying to eat my face. The rest of my time is spent walking--a lot of walking. Humans have one of the highest endurances of the species native to the mortal plane--we might not be fast or particularly strong, but we can keep going and going and going. The Energizer Bunnies of Earth.

So I’m pretty fit--but the pace Marcone set was grueling. The first night we camped, I went to sleep sore all over and work up fused into the human equivalent of one giant muscle cramp. Had to do some serious stretching to just approach the thought of moving, and even then I ached as I walked.

The worst part of it was the _impatience_ coming off of the others. Oh, yeah, I guess they were trying to be considerate of the poor, fragile human in their midst, but it _rankled_. (And don’t tell me darkness condensed can’t be impatient--Hendricks was basically a giant’s shadow and he kicked up the glowering menace every time I looked at him.) Add to that the stress of figuring out how to get the goods delivered, what the Red Court being involved with Winter meant, how I was going to get back home, and what the hell Marcone was up to, and, well, I wasn’t in the greatest of moods. Hoods are great at glowering. I was in top form what with everything going on.

So when we were ambushed the second day, I was almost glad to have a target to beat out my frustrations on.

Okay, see, here’s the thing. My performance so far on this mission hadn’t been anything near to how I usually do--especially considering I was standing in comparison next to two powerful beings in the heartland of their territory and a _Valkyrie_.

But in terms of raw strength, I bring some serious heat to the table; amongst the Hoods, I easily rank in the top twenty-five percent worldwide for my age group. Add to that an adult lifetime of healthy paranoia and walking the Woods and Nevernever with the threat of dismemberment and my godmother over my shoulder, and I was pretty quick off the mark. Especially here in the Woods, a place I’d always considered a danger zone.

So Hendricks had barely started moving to attack the first of the shadows that had leaped out at us, Gard was just drawing her axe, and Marcone was… well, I wasn’t sure what Marcone was doing, but when the first of the skinny, vaguely wolflike shadows flung themselves through the air at us, I swatted the leader out of its leap with a barked, “ _Forzare_!” like it was an annoying fly, sending him flying back into two of his buddies.

They all fell outside of my circle of light, and Marcone _rippled_ , a wave going through the cloth of his suit and the flesh beneath like the passing of the sea from his head to his toe, and then there was a series of juicy tearing noises and unearthly, agonized screaming from the dark.

I didn’t look too closely. There’s only so much sleep you can lose to nightmares.

Behind me, Hendricks roared again, making the very ground underneath my boots quake; I tossed a glance at him to find him fighting off four similar shadows. Gard was wielding her axe to deadly efficiency, ducking under and around Hendricks’ smashing limbs like they’d coordinated it as a dance, cleaving here, chopping there; Marcone’s hand closed over my upper arm and yanked me away from them.

“Give them room to work,” he said almost idly, eyes elsewhere; in the darkness beyond the trees, I heard another screech. “You may increase the light if it would allow you greater efficiency.”

“Won’t you--”

His gaze shifted to me at that, and a fierce grin split his face, reveals rows of canine teeth behind his lips. “Don’t worry about me, Harry. I can handle whatever you throw out.”

Oh, well, when he put it _that_ way… “Marcone, you couldn’t handle me if you tried.”

And I reached for _fire_.

See, I’d been tossing around force instead of flame because lighting the Woods up like a wickerman was not the way to make friends. Same thing goes for Winter, doubly so for cold iron in any region of Faerie.

But fire over force is the element I have the most mastery over--and _hell_ , it felt good to whip out my blasting rod and launch a “ _Fuego_!” into the face of the next terror that jumps out of the Woods at me.

I can see both Hendriks and the things attacking him flinch at the sudden burst of light; he recovers first and manages to tear one to shreds before the rest regroup. I swing my staff at the next shadow to barrel out of the treeline, smacking it to the ground where I stomp its skull in as I pitch another fireball at movement in the second line of trees, lighting them up like fireworks. There’s a gurgling sort of noise from behind me, and I whip around just in time to see a solid spear of darkness withdraw from where it had impaled the shadow about to suckerpunch me through the skull, slithering daintily back into the still-human-shaped Baron where he stands on the path making imperious gestures out into the greater darkness. I can _just_ spot the shifting of shadows out there as things die before they reach us, and momentarily debate complaining at Marcone about taking away all the fun before discarding the idea.

The skirmish wraps up fast enough between the four of us--and that really is what this is, I realize, a skirmish in the greater war for control--the last survivors slinking back off into the darkness with fleeing yips and yipes.

“Mister Hendricks? Miss Gard?”

“Alive and not too poorly off,” Gard calls back. She’s walking up the deerpath to us around the fading remains of the shadows, her bloodied axe over one shoulder and her clothes splattered with dark-colored gore; a hauntingly fierce light glows in her eyes and I hastily look away from them before I can be drawn in. Behind her, Hendricks is oozing something the color and consistency of mud made from black soil and mixed with blood from several gashes along his body, but none of them look serious and he’s as stoic as ever, blue-white eyes blazing with fading adrenaline.

I let my pentacle dim down to tolerable levels, the Woods receding back into indistinct black shapes against more black, and turn to look at Marcone--who’s looking in turn at Hendricks, concern folded into the line between his brows. He makes as if it say something, then closes his mouth and turns away; I glance back at Hendricks in time to see him rearrange his human features back into his usual stoic expression before losing his grip on the form entirely and melting back into his shadow state.

“Come along then, Mister Dresden. We need to make up for the time we lost.”

I heave a loud sigh at the sky, not caring if he hears, and follow after Marcone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter involves Winter finally :"D


	7. Chapter 7

“No, I’m not just going to run in there, chuck the package at Lea, and sprint off, okay; it has to be handed off. There’s a ritual that goes with it, stuff like that. Me just tossing it into the portal and hoping for the best isn’t going to cut it.”

Battle plans like this are the sort of thing that I'd hoped we'd have gotten out of the way before we actually _reached_ the Way, but no, apparently Huey, Dewey, and Louie don't discuss things like that with mere Hoods while they walk. Or in Marcone's case, talk at all; this is probably the most I've heard him speak at once since we left the heartland of his territory. Not sure what it says about both of us that it's because he's arguing with me. Marcone quirks an eyebrow, and I shut my mouth, rewinding what I’d just said in my head. Crap. I’d used ‘Lea’--that was probably too familiar a name to use with a faerie that was ranked up near Mab herself in terms of power, right? Dammit.

“The _Leanansidhe_ \--” Oh now he’s just rubbing it in. “--doesn’t seem the type to let anything she wants go when she has it in her possession. I said I’d go with you, Harry, and that means all the way into Winter.”

The curiosity that brings up distracts me for a second. “Can you even manifest in the Nevernever?” I ask despite myself. It’s a good question; I didn’t think I’d heard of any creature from the Woods that possessed a territory leaving it. “Wait, I mean--fuck. No, you’re not coming with me! It’s too dangerous.” Behind me, I hear Hendricks made an approving sort of grunting noise, which both Marcone and I ignore.

“I said that I would escort you, and escort you I shall,” Marcone replies. He sounds a little testy. Good. Then he leans in and that’s not so good; I resist the urge to lean away.

“Harry, please trust me in this--you will not get out safely unless I accompany you to Winter. All of this is going to be for naught otherwise.”

I glower at Marcone, lit idiotically by my pentacle light like someone put a flashlight under his chin to make him look like a cheesy B-movie villain or Queen in that music video, and flick it off in annoyance, letting my eyes adjust to the predawn gloom of the air before saying, “Stop being so stubborn--this isn’t a game or some bloodless power scuffle; I can’t go in there with the package, worry about Winter, worry about the _Leanansidhe_ , and protect _you_ , too. _I_ think it’s a bad idea and that you shouldn’t go.”

“It _is_ a bad idea. But it’s an _even worse_ one for you to go alone.”

I exhale and scrub at my eyes with the heels of my hands. The pace has been as brutal as ever, even after (maybe because of) yesterday’s fight, and my eyes feel too scratchy and my head too fuzzy to make me really dig in my heels and headbutt against Marcone. Honestly though, what could be clearer about 'there are things out there that could kill you; you shouldn't come'?

“Besides,” he adds mildly. “Who says that you’d be protecting me?”

I uncover one eye enough to glare at him and the perfectly practiced bland look on his face and sigh. Who the hell am I kidding?

“If we get out of there, you have to tell me _everything_. Why you need to go with me so bad, why you’re declaring war on the Red Court, why you’re amassing power--the real reason, not whatever it is you’re telling everyone else to make it look nice and neat. Also, for the record, I regret ever setting that tree on fire. Even if it was an accident,” I tell him frankly.

“It’s a bit too late for regrets, Mister Dresden. But… very well. Agreed. You have my word, sworn on my power.”

I shake my head but turn to where the package is tugging me, the insistent pull like a compass towards the quickest way between point A and B, and extend my arm, pointing the tip of my staff at the empty bit of air where the Way we need is, and whispering, “ _Aparturum_ ”, drawing a line straight across and tearing my way into Winter, the portal hovering before us like a slice of pure condensed chill in the clearing.

I shove through without a second glance; let’s get this over with.

\--

My first thought upon dropping down into a foot of snow is, “Winter’s really bright.”

The second is, “I wonder if I can close the portal on John and keep him from following me?”

Unfortunately, that question doesn’t get answered; by the time I’ve rubbed the snow-glare out of my eyes, Marcone’s stepped through as well, the portal left open behind us as I channel my will through it to keep it from closing. Better the slow drain than having to stop to open another one in case we need to make a quick exit. And I doubt anything from their end was going to get through considering The Incredible Hulk and Miss Thor back in the clearing.

I sigh. Well, it’d been worth a try.

“You okay there, Marcone? Not gonna collapse into a pile of ectoplasm on me?”

He gives me a perfectly _frigid_ look (ha ha), utterly unimpressed, and says, “No Mister Dresden, I do believe I’ll be able to hold myself together. Now, if you would…” He gestures at the unbroken field of snow around us, ominously dense black forest and unforgiving mountains in the distance, and a perfectly cheery and utterly incongruous small cottage much closer. I triangulate via the goods and, yeah, that’s Lea’s alright.

“Sure.” Marcone would probably have more trouble in the snow, be cold in his suit and shiny shoes, if I a) hadn’t started walking in front of him and thus broke a path and b) hadn’t spotted said leftover snow being cleared away from his feet like an invisible plow was shoving it aside, exposing frozen grass. Squinting, I can see the faint outline of what would have been John’s shadow pushing at the stuff to clear his way. Handy, I guess. If kinda creepy.

Actually, to be honest, John looks a little… I automatically speed up my pace as I try to put a finger on what I’m seeing. He’s barely been in Winter five minutes and he already looks tired--tired of the place, of walking across the field, his typical shadowy mass withdrawn to the edges of the shadow he would have cast as a human. He looks… faded out, as if the snow glare had bleached him grey instead of black just by being in Winter.

I don’t exactly have a spell to cast darkness on anything, so I settle for keeping up my ground-eating lope through said snow. The sooner I get the package delivered, the sooner John can get back to the Woods where he obviously belongs.

(I would say ‘I told you so’ but considering he’s probably not feeling so great right now, I let it go. Look Eb, more tact!)

I can hear the barks and yips of Lea’s hounds yards away from the house; my spine stiffens but I keep walking. I’m here on official business, dammit--she can’t turn me into a dog just yet.

The door thuds hollowly underneath my fist; ignoring both my nerves and the desire to shift from foot to foot because of said nonexistent nerves, I wait until I hear the familiar voice of my godmother to open it.

John and I step inside into, at first blush, what looks like a quaint hunting lodge. On second look, the inside of the cottage is bigger than the outside and is less a hunting lodge than a massive combination trophy case and armory. The place is easily four times as large as my apartment and brimming over: dead, mounted animal/monster bits litter the floor and walls, punctuated by racks of archaic, lovely weapons done in crystal and silvery metal, and armor on stands, some bearing rents and tears that looked like they would have been fatal to the wearer.

My godmother lounges in front of a massive roaring fire, dressed in an ermine robe open enough to show the generous curves of her breasts and that she’s wearing nothing else underneath; catlike eyes watch me with predatory amusement as John and I approach, her full, mulberry red lips curved into a gentle yet mocking smile. Glamor floats around her, almost audible in the way that characterizes all the strongest of Faerie; I shake off its effects with a small effort. Six hounds-- well, I wouldn’t say they were playing, what with the fact that it looked like several were actively trying to tear each other apart--frolic around her where she lies on several animal pelt rugs, the heavyset animals filling the air with snarls, growls, and yelps of pain as hits land.

Her smile widens as her eyes meet mine, and she gestures us forward from where we’ve paused, beckoning us closer; I try to not feel like a rabbit willingly stepping into a trap as I advance over the honey-colored wooden floors towards her, the hounds snarling at our feet but parting.

“Hood Dresden,” she says as I slow to a stop.

“Leanansidhe of Winter,” I reply, and my voice takes on the cadence of rote, of ritual. “I, Red Hood Dresden, come bearing goods from Bianca St. Claire of the Red Court. Will you accept this package in good faith?”

“Of course. Please.” And she takes the box from my hands after I unbuckle it from my belt, feeling the spells and wards around it unravel around my fingers with the ritual concluded and the exchange completed.

She opens the lid and smiles beatifically at its contents, tilts the wooden case to show me what’s inside: a dark bladed knife sits nestled in crushed red velvet, its simple lines gleaming darkly. “Lovely.” And closes the lid, setting it aside. “Your duty is concluded, Hood Dresden.”

Then she smiles again, perfect lips peeling back from her teeth and exposing her delicately sharp canines, and all the hounds around us break into baleful, gleeful howls in unison.

“Now, godson… won’t you sit by the fire with me? I believe we have things to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick IRL note; I'm heading back to Chicago this weekend and starting school back up after that. As I said before, this fic is currently finished and being typed up, so I'll try to keep updates semi-regular. Its sequel, which is as of yet unnamed but will cover the events of Storm Front and skid through some of Fool Moon's, is also almost finished! Same as this fic, I'll try to type it up in a regular fashion and get it posted once [hunter, hunted] is concluded. (There's probably going to be at least one more fic in this AU series, but I have to give some love to my other two WIP fics too, so no guarantees on when that one will be done.)
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for being patient with me! ;v;/


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /sweats
> 
> what do you mean i realized i was pretty close to the end so i just decided to post the rest all at once

I ignore John’s soft intake of breath behind me--the puzzle pieces are evidently falling into place for him, but unluckily for me, my prospects are looking kind of grim as a result. I move as though wading through water, agonizingly slowly, to where Lea sits on her furs.

John’s hand closes on my arm just above the elbow, squeezes hard; he hisses into my back, “Harry, don’t--”

“I have to. I… I owe her a debt.”

I can practically hear his eyebrows rise. “ _A_ debt?”

“I was young and stupid.” Desperate. But stupid.

“And my dear godson has eluded my offer of safety for too long,” Lea says. Her eyes move from me to John, and I can feel his grip squeeze microscopically tighter, though the rest of him stays still. “I’m sure you understand how frustrating that is, Baron. My godson is quite the stubborn creature.”

“It’s endearing when it’s not irritating,” and wait, _what_? I almost turn to stare at John in disbelief, but his hand pulls me down--pulls both of us down to sit on the fur rugs in front of the fire. I’m hyperaware of my godmother, the hounds with bared teeth circling us, and John, sitting calmly beside me as though he chatted with insanely powerful fey every day. Big brass ones, the Baron has.

His hand’s drifted from my arm to my back, lingering possessively in the lower curve of my spine; I don’t have more than a second to goggle at it before my attention is arrested by Lea leaning forward, taking my chin in her fingers, and tsking as she turns my head back and forth firmly.

“Oh godson--I’d thought you too young yet to be a lord’s knight or… vassal, but I suppose you _are_ at that age now, aren’t you? The young grow so quickly…” She runs red-lacquered nails through my hair, pushing it back from my temples before forcing me to look her in the eyes. I meet them willingly--the eyes may be the literal windows to the soul, but my godmother’s not human enough to have one. And I’m glad for it; you never forget what you see in a soulgaze, and the cold, wild beauty that would be Lea’s essence wasn’t something I wanted lingering in my psyche for the rest of my life.

She makes the disappointed tsking noise again and lets go of me to consider John. “I see now why you accompanied my godson on his journey. You shall take his burden, then?”

John nods, and I feel like I’m missing something massive here, that I’m not making some important connection somewhere between their words and what they mean. “I will accept and honor all of Harry’s debt; I swear it upon my power.”

“I will continue to act as Harry’s godmother--that was a desire expressed by his mother, and not something he arranged.”

John nods again. “That is acceptable.”

“Very well then.” Lea turns back to me. “I will honor the Woods’ and the Wolfhead Baron’s claim upon my godson. I absolve you of your debts to me.”

What.

_What._

_What?!_

“Wh--” John’s fingers dig into my back hard and hell’s bells, are those _claws_? I hastily turn the noise into “--thank you, Lea” before John’s pulling me to my feet, nodding politely at her where she lounges (I try to not consider the pleased look on her face), and frogmarching us out of the cottage like everything in it doesn’t want to kill us.

“What the fucking hell was _that_?” I yell at him as he pushes me across the snow; I crane my neck to stare over my shoulder at him, stunned astonishment and relief turning quickly into anger. “Did you just--you took my _debt_?? You owe Lea now because--I’m not your _vassal_! Or your knight! And the Woods--”

“Harry,” he says very evenly. “Please shut up until we get back to my territory.”

“No--You--” I snarl wordlessly and wrench away from him to bellow, “ _Fugeo_!” at the meadow, balling up all my rage and shoving it into the spell, searing a swath of the field into charred grass and vaporizing the snow instantly, venting my emotions in visceral energy. Also a few birds from the forest _miles_ away shot up towards the sky squawking and Lea’s hounds broke into a fit of barking-baying-howling noise that was almost unbelievably loud. Oops.

I wheel back around to John’s most-unimpressed expression, arms crossed at me; he stares cooly and asks, “Are you done with your tantrum?”

“No,” I growl at him, then start walking back across the meadow to the open Way, muttering insults about him under my breath.

\--

John’s posture relaxes instantly once we’re back in the gloom of the Woods; I glance at the side of his head. “Okay. _Talk_.”

He sighs as though excessively put upon and turns to stare me in the eyes.

I stare back. It’s not like he was human enough for a soul either--

\--and trip into the bare bones of him so quickly I surprise myself, his soul closing soundlessly over my head as easy and peaceful as drowning.

I See people in metaphor, where allusion and symbolism are unique to each; as I look around the beautifully, harshly stark interior of Gentleman Johnny, John Marcone’s soul, I try to ignore the sensation of having a predator towering above me, lingering powerful and ruthless over my form. Instead, I try to find that reason for all of this--the tidy, brightened, well-worn corner that drives the hunter padding in my footsteps, breathing hot over my shoulder, the back of my neck.

I find a girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, seven years too late to save her from the drive-by that takes her from her parents, stolen away by the bullet meant for John; I feel the steel-strong conviction whose foundations weave through his soul, rooted in that memory, watch as trees black and dark rise from the girders, rebar, and concrete of the city he loves and that’s been lost to him for so long, see entropy and change overgrow the bare bones of Chicago as it becomes a hunting ground, and close my eyes as John’s teeth close softly around my throat, pierce the skin, and kill me.

It felt like hours walking those changed streets in his head but must have only been seconds; Gard and Hendricks are only just starting across the clearing to us.

John looks pale, shaken, but still standing firm and almost contemplative; I spare a second to wonder what he’d seen in me--soulgazes are a two-way street and for all I see in them, they see into me. I’ve had people scream, cry, faint, at what they find.

John just swallows and says, “ I see where the two shadows come from.”

“You’re human.” I correct myself even as his brows furrow. “You _were_ human. Still are human enough to have a soul, despite being Baron now. That’s why you’re doing all this--gaining power, land, resources--you weren’t lying when you said you were building a base of power. You want to go back to Chicago.”

He gestures Gard and Hendricks off, signals for them to stay away, and says quietly to me, “What happens to children that get lost in the woods?”

“I--” It takes a moment for me to switch gears. “They disappear. Die. I mean, unless they can find a way out.”

“And thus the woods are a great part of our legends. Our faerie tales. Our fables. The mystery, the grief, the fear of death--it’s all a part of it.”

And I get it--that’s his answer to how he’d ended up here. “Hell’s bells, John--how long have you been lost?”

He flicks tired, faded-green eyes to mine, and I meet them without fear. A soulgaze only happens once. “Too long. But do _not_ be mistaken, Harry--I’m no damsel to be rescued. The Woods have been my crucible, are now my home, and if I have to build, drag myself back up to the mortal plane by my claws, to fulfill that promise to her, I _will_. I _am_.”

There’s a flicker of the predator that had gently stolen my life’s breath from me in his eyes for an instant before it’s muffled by what almost looks like regret. “And Harry--you’ve been lost as well. It was necessary to preserve your life. But you left the Path.”

I can feel the blood drain from my face. My hands are suddenly cold. “What are you saying?” I whisper through stiff lips, mind racing, ticking through possibilities, permutations. Part of me… part of me knows what he’s going to say. The rest of me needs to hear it to nail it into my reality. Because it's afraid.

John gestures at me, then at the moonlight-lit trees around us. “It happens to everyone that’s lost. The Woods stakes its claim. It happened to me--and it’s happening to you.” He watches my face and nods as though he can hear my thoughts. “You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? You can see more, further in the dark. The stars, moon, came out. You can tell where you are just by considering it, whose territory, which way is north.” His gaze sharpens. “You want to run. To _hunt_.”

I _want_ to shake my head. Deny everything he’s saying in one last-ditch effort to hold onto my old life--I’m as human as any Hood could be when he kills his lover, his mentor, and the demon he sent after him at sixteen in too much flame to save anything but a skull--but the trees erupt into bloody cacophony around us before I can force any words out around the lump of truth in my throat.


	9. Chapter 9

John’s attention snaps away from me like flipping a switch, and I stumble as though released from paralysis, steadied by the hand he’s automatically extended. “Hendricks!”

“I told you this would happen, Boss,” and that’s the most emotional I’ve ever heard the guy. “The Reds’re attacking and the little fish are snapping--you left the territory and everyone from here to heaven probably felt the vacuum.”

John’s too controlled to curse, but I can tell blasphemy is on the tip of his tongue as he looks back at me, biting off each word like they were the ones attacking. “Harry. There’s a Way that leads from here to Chicago; we need to get you to it posthaste. It’s near the heart, we--”

“John, that took us _two_ days--”

“Two days at a _human_ pace. You’re more than three-fourths a vassal of mine and changed enough by the Woods--”

“What--”

“When you need to run--chase after it. Don’t hesitate, don’t overthink it, just go. I’ll follow you.” That grin again, none of it Gentleman Johnny and all of it _John_. “I _said_ I would see this through, and I _shall_.”

“Look, I don’t freaking understand--”

 

And then John drops his human form entirely and I _do_.

 

He’s feline, he’s lupine, both and neither, the edges of his body shifting in and out of the very _ground_ , one and the same as his territory, the embodiment of the Wolfshead Baron; he’s huge, taller than me, and all muscle and sleek black fur stinking of animal musk. His grin’s the same though, all teeth and sharp points, his eyes the flickering green of a predator’s reflecting light, and he snarls out a rough “Run, little dear” in hot breath that’s familiar, and part of me quakes and quails and startles, leaping away into the Woods with its tail flagged high.

And I let myself follow and it’s like turning myself inside out, painlessly pouring myself into a new form that lands surely on four hooves and keeps running, somehow already knowing in which direction to go.

John _howls_ behind me, and it’s the belling of a hundred hounds, the roars of tens of tigers, the baying of packs of wolves all rolled into one, a terrible orchestra of sound that makes me leap faster; he’s _coming_ for me.

Something darts into my path, tries to tangle itself in my feet to bring me down, and I lower my head and impale it on my horns, heave it over my shoulder with a toss of my head, and trample the next two underneath my hooves as I bound. One tries to score my flank, digs claws into my hide and the muscle beneath, and I scream at the pain and instinctively reach for _flame_ , light the forest up with heat and hungry fire and burn my assailant to ash; my hoofprints leave scorched, still-smoldering circles in the dirt where I step. I burn as I run, gallop between trees and brush and the figures of those fighting until I break into the clearing, John baying hot at my heels, and skitter and skid on the cleared ground, borne to the dirt underneath the Wolfshead’s bulk, he having exploded from the treeline to tackle my hooves out from under me and close teeth around my neck.

I should be afraid. But I’m not.

 

I can feel John shift, part of himself closing himself off from the rest of him, a mental wall going up between the Baron and John, and I shut my eyes, pouring myself back into myself, and open them to dim light and the clearing.

Er.

Well, not _so_ dim light--brightness grows in the distance, my fires burning bright, and John actually has the gall to laugh as he hauls me upright.

“You always manage to light something on fire” and that’s definitely teasing for sure. Asshole. “Open the Way, Harry.”

“But--the Reds--?”

“Report to your superiors and tell them what happened--get me reinforcements and I’ll forgive you for running out on me.”

I splutter and squint blearily at him. To be honest, I’m hitting the bottom of the barrel--two days of forced march, a portal to Winter, and a run through the Woods in a deer (I think it was a deer?) form really takes it out of a guy, and I probably couldn’t do much but spit at the Reds at this point. I protest anyway because, dammit, it doesn’t feel right to leave John here with this mess that I’ve partly brought upon him.

“Open the Way, Harry. I’ll be here when everything settles, I promise. And we can talk more then.”

I try to pummel my brain into working again. I can't stay here. John has to; it's his territory. But I can get reinforcements. And that'll help. “I--ffff, okay. Okay. I’m _holding you_ to that.” This “ _aparturum_ ” is sloppy enough to nearly miss, but the Way opens, exposing the haze and muted hush-roar of Chicago; I clamber halfway through and look back to see John visibly strain towards it and me before checking himself and pulling back.

“Fight good, fleabag.”

He pushes me through in response, a quick shove as easy as… I can't think of a good metaphor, leave me alone, I’m tired; I flail and land on my ass on concrete as Chicago’s reality reasserts itself and my gear assumes its first form.

The Way closes with the bobble in my concentration, and the last thing I see through it before it goes is John waving goodbye to me against a backdrop of flame.


	10. Chapter 10

My first act is to report to the Grey Hoods, the primary guards of the White and the reinforcers of internal law; they're like security to the White’s upper-level management, I guess. I do this by dragging my aching, tapped-out body to the nearest pay phone, fishing out a few quarters from my pants pocket, and dialing a number I have memorized.

“This is Scarlet Floral; my name is Leonard. How may I help you?”

I relax at the familiar Southern burr. I got one of the good operators, and I’m so tired that the line doesn’t even buzz that much between us. “Lily, it’s Dresden. I need to make a Priority One report.”

The line’s silent for a beat, then I hear Leonard splutter-- “ _Harry_?? Earth’s bones and bellstones, where in the Nine Hells have you _been_?? It’s been a _week_! You _missed check-in_! We were gonna send out a damn _search party_ , holy shit--wait. Priority _One_??” I hear him fumbling for paper and something to write with even as I absorb the thought that I’d been gone for a _week_.

Hell’s bells. Murph was going to _kill me_. As was Nick.

“Okay, okay, Dresden; tell me what happened. Start after you left Chicago.”

So I tell him. Detail the first pass through Marcone’s territory, getting attacked in the Red Court, being (rescued) assisted by the Baron, the trip to Winter (glossing over Lea’s relationship to me and why exactly she’d let me go), and leaving out the final run through the Woods altogether. Wouldn’t do to divulge too much to the organization that mostly wants to kill me.

“The Baron’s fighting off the Red Court right now--he needs reinforcements,” I finish; Lily makes a noncommittal, preoccupied sound on the phone and then there’s the tearing of paper and a soft murmur in a fluid, unknown-to-me language.

“Okay, report sent--Harry--” His voice drops back down from serious to just concerned. “I emphasised that the Baron helped you and that that’s tantamount to a formal alliance--but sending out Hoods to the area… it’s gonna hafta be run through the White first. I dunno how fast we can get people out there.”

“Is there anything--”

“Hang on, I wasn’t done talking! I _do_ … look, I’m on the team that was supposed to go out and look for you. Johnny is, too.”

“Who else?”

“Ramirez--he insisted, pulled himself off of the border just for this--Cho, Morgan--”

“Can you go out _now_?”

Lily makes a noise like he’s sucking on his lip, then says, “Morgan’ll be hard to convince, but we were supposed to leave in an hour, so…” A definite hint of laughter colors his voice. “It’s always easier to apologize than ask for permission.”

I can feel my shoulders relax. “Thanks Lily--I owe you one.”

“Don’t thank me just yet--five Grey aren’t going to be enough. The Baron’s started a war and if he’s anywhere as strong as I remember, his fight’s gonna back up the planes all the way up to here. It’s gonna be a nasty one, Harry. We can’t afford to have everyone out on this to attack things in the Woods.”

“Yeah--I understand. Tactics.”

“Exactly. Harry, sug’, tell you what; I’ll keep you updated, okay? But you can’t do anything else right now, and frankly, you sound dead on your feet--not surprising really, jaunting to Winter and back like that--just go home, feed the cat, and get some rest. Best for us all if you’re bright and perky to punch whatever else pops up around here in the face while we’re gone.”

I snort. “Okay. Okay. Lily--thanks. Good hunting.”

“You’re welcome, dear; sleep well. Lily out.”

He hangs up, and I look at the receiver for a long moment, thoughts whirling, before I hang up too to concentrate on figuring out how to even get home.


	11. Chapter 11

It wasn’t that big of a change.

Lily and the party got to Marcone’s region of the Woods soon enough to provide assistance, cleanup, and containment. Apparently John had let my fire burn through the place until it ran out of fuel. I mean, he was the Baron; he probably knew what he was doing with his own territory. Turning it into a smoldering pit notwithstanding.

The White Hoods provided little official aid, just like I’d expected--John’s fight was going to be rough, and we just didn’t have the manpower. But on the other hand, they couldn’t stand aside when the Wolfshead Baron had obviously assisted one of their own (no matter how much they hated said member), and, frankly, no-one wanted to get on Marcone’s bad side--he was an unknown factor and the Hoods couldn’t afford to be locked out of that region of the Woods. Instead, they elected to help him in another way--acted as his messengers and couriers for free, reporting back on difficult regions.

I still ran Woods quests, same as usual. The Hoods couldn’t afford to let me go in that aspect. I tried to stay out of Winter (really, fey territory in the Nevernever in general), and I’m pretty sure some people… noticed the newfound ease with which I navigated the Woods, but since the contents of my report weren’t made public, most of the Hoods didn’t know I’d gone off the Path.

“You know, if _I_ didn’t know it, I’d say you were exactly the same,” Lily remarks. It’s late morning a week after I’d come back, too early for lunch. Mac’s was pretty abandoned as a result, and the two Greys and I could talk freely. “You just look like you’re getting more sun instead of being a mushroom in your apartment all day.” He takes a sip of his lemonade and hands the glass back to Johnny, seated at his left and nursing a formerly-dislocated shoulder, arm in a sling.

“And that they’re shaped,” Johnny drawls. “Fawn spotted.”

Lily had looked genuinely curious when he’d asked if they went all the way down and had laughed when Johnny punched him on the arm--Lily and Johnny, Leonard and Jonathon Smith, were Grey Hoods and the regional distributors for this sector of the United States. They were both from the South, Lily’s accent unpinnable to a region, Johnny’s thick and Texan, and had been married, stationed, for years before I’d settled in the Windy City. I’d gotten to know them over time--as I earned myself a reputation as a smaller guardian of Chicago, rescuing kids and beating back monsters when these two were otherwise occupied by Hood obligations--and we met up every week or so for a drink at Mac’s to catch up on news.

What Lily was referring to was the series of brown freckles that had appeared over my cheeks and the bridge of my nose in the days post-return, the marks darkening and spreading until they’d stopped along the sides of my thighs. And, like Johnny had said, the pattern of them resembled a fawn or fallow deer’s spots, arranged randomly enough that it was unnoticeable until one knew what to look for.

The Woods had marked me in other ways--sometimes after casting magic, especially fire, I’d catch my reflection in the window of a shop or a puddle and see my eyes flickering back from wide, wet black to their natural beer-bottle brown; I could see better in the dark, enough to avoid stubbing my toes in the lab when the candles were out or being able to spot an assailant in a dim alleyway at night before he clocked me; I could _feel_ the places where the fabric of the worlds was thin, where just an effort of will could tear it open and drop me back out into endless moonlit darkness, the predawn hush of a forest, far from the Path and yet still capable of going anywhere I pleased. I always knew which way was north, even with my eyes closed or underground or out on the water.

And I could feel it when John called his troops, belling to the leaf-shadowed sky planes away from me.

And he was doing it a _lot_.

And, astonishing everyone, including me, he was _winning_.

Even the Red Court had underestimated the force of the Baron, and they tripped and scrambled over themselves in an attempt to salvage as much as they could, trying to strike back--but John harried them like the wolf he was, biting and ripping and wearing them down until, beaten and bloody, they retreated to the mortal plane where they became the problem of every Accorded being on it.

They were quiet for now--licking their wounds--and Bianca set up shop in Chicago itself in an obvious challenge that set my teeth on edge, taking over the Velvet Room, one _very_ high-end brothel, from its original Red Court proprietress.

And Marcone--he took over their section of the Woods. Gutted it, converted it, made it his.

 

Started building up.

 

There’s a new weak spot in my apartment, behind the ranks of wards and walls, located in the soft, warm space in front of the fireplace, above my rugs. I’d be concerned about the potential for a security breach if I hadn’t torn it open one rainy day, poking my head through and feeling my pupils widen in the dark, to spot the back of a massive, thronelike chair and the edges of an equally huge desk around it. Both were a little ashy, the remaining trees on the edges of the clearing blackened where fire had chewed, but there was new, tender growth between them, reaching for the sky.

John had looked over and around the chair at me, smiled, and said, “Welcome back, Harry.”

I’d slammed the metaphorical door on his face, closing the portal without responding, but… it was nice to know that that Way wouldn’t be any trouble.

So maybe it was more change than I’d thought.

But, eh… it wasn’t too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it!! So this is the official end of [hunter, hunted]; I hope everyone enjoyed their time with it! There's a lot of loose ends and worldbuilding that I simply didn't get to put in this fic (as well as not enough John&Harry), so as I said earlier, there is an almost-completed sequel in the works! It's currently unnamed and will cover mostly Storm Front with a dash of Fool Moon, but I'll type it up in the near future and start updating with it like I did with this one. 
> 
> (Unrelated but holy crap, this thing turned out much longer than I'd anticipated for a firsttime fic... aha,,)


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